(1) I’ve written the beginning, but I’m pretty sure it’s a pile of crap.
(2) The end, when I even dare to contemplate it, feels as far away as Uranus.
(3) The prose I’m writing right now, here in the middle, sounds like a stiff little busybody who’s sat down too hard on a nettle.
(4) I’ve discovered that my plot, even if it’s an engaging plot, has sections that are not engaging to write, and I’m bogged down in those doldrums sections, when all I want is to move on to the exciting parts that are just ahead —but I can’t, not until I’ve written the parts that will get me there. Boring!
(5) The house is strewn with post-it notes on which are written about a gazillion important reminders of things I must somehow remember to find a way to weave into the novel at some point, although, where, I can’t imagine. Some of the post-it notes are written hastily in a code I have since forgotten. (“He is temperamentally sweet, but dangerous, like Jake.” That would be very helpful, if I had the slightest idea to whom “he” refers, or if I knew anyone named Jake.)
(6) Worst of all, whenever I take a step back and try to examine objectively this unstructured mess that is half created and half still living in my head and heart and hope (and on a gazillion post-it notes)… I get this horrible, sinking feeling that my novel isn’t actually about anything.”
Other authors can be so helpful! I would be surprised if any author didn’t feel this way, at least occasionally, and from what I understand, most feel this way often. It gives me hope that it’s not just me out there in the wilderness